


Every hour of every day

by zuzallove



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Coda, Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Fix-It, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post 15x19, Post-Episode: s15e18 Despair, Spoilers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, ignores s15e20, ignores s15e21, post 15x18
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27574549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuzallove/pseuds/zuzallove
Summary: Cas was going to heal from the wounds inflicted by the Empty, stay human, grow old, and die, and all Dean wanted was the privilege to stay and watch.Dean pulled out the final item, although it was arguably the most important one: a bottle of whiskey.“I’m not drinking that.”“Oh, yes you are, angel. And do you know why?”“I’m not an angel anymore.”“You’ll always be an angel to me. Yup, you’re going to drink it, and you’re going to like it, because, guess what? It’s finally time you and I talked.”Fix-it fic. Post 15x19 Inherit the Earth
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 68
Kudos: 414





	Every hour of every day

**Author's Note:**

> I have shipped Destiel for 10 years now. Not just, you know, casual shipping, hardcore shipping, the whole shebang, reading about them, following the tag everywhere, buying stuff, being obsessed with them. There was something I could never do, however, and that was writing about them. There are ships that are just so personal, so loved, that you just can’t bring yourself to write about them. It feels almost profane, and it still does.  
> But after 12 years of hopelessness, of delusions, they’ve given us this confession. This beautiful, unexpected piece of happiness, and told us “do what you want with it.” So this is what I’ve done with it. This is my finale. And it’s angsty, and stupid, and probably sappy, but it’s mine, and this is how I want it to end for them, regardless of how it actually ends.  
> I am drained emotionally from the past episodes, from writing this, I truly have nothing left to give. This is my first and last Destiel fanfic, and god, am I being dramatic right now hahaha  
> But this is what happens when you truly, truly love something. Destiel has given me so much. This is my small, ridiculous, improper way of saying thank you.  
> I don’t know what is going to happen in the final episode and I’m making a point of publishing this before it airs. I don’t have any hope for it (I think that they have given us all they were willing to give) and so this is my way of ending it. For them.  
> Apologies for the mistakes, I’m Italian and English isn’t my first language.  
> I just hope you can find the same closure I have found writing this.
> 
> Edit POST 15X20, 15X21   
> I knew it. I fucking knew it.

The Empty had not been kind to Cas this time.

Furious at the noise, the mess, the disaster with Death, and God, it had taken out its every frustration onto him.

When Jack, as the New God, pulled him out of the Empty and into the desperate and waiting arms of Dean Winchester, Castiel was almost beyond recognition.

Not an angel. Barely a human. Wounded by supernatural wounds so deep, not even God himself could fix them. Only time could, Jack explained with an apologetic tone, looking straight at Dean, as if he knew perfectly that out of all of them, he was the one hurting the most. Not Cas, almost dead, slack in his arms, covered in blood and with his limbs twisted at unnatural angles.

Dean wanted to growl at Jack, scream, yell “Fix him!” over and over, but as he realised the pain Jack was in, looking at the broken figure of his father, he figured there truly was nothing that could be done. Not right now.

“Thank you, Jack,” Sam whispered, his eyes earnest and full of tears, not quite able yet to look at the mess his friend had been turned into. Not quite able to stomach it.

“Take care of him,” Jack answered through clenched teeth. “He’s precious to me.”

And then, just like that, he disappeared. Back to his dust, his particles, his droplets of vapour in the air. Dean didn’t know. He didn’t care.

“Hospital,” he grunted at Sam, hoisting Cas as delicately as he could over his shoulders, and then thinking better of it. He carried him, bridal style, to the backseat of the Impala. He tossed his keys to Sam and, without a word, they both did what they needed to do. Sam drove them like a madman to the nearest hospital. Dean sat in the backseat, cradling Cas’ head and wishing, not for the first time in his life, that he had someone, _anyone_ , to pray to.

***  
  
  


The days spent at the hospital blurred together.

They took a motel room down the street, foolishly, wasting money, since they spent every single second in the waiting room. Only at the end of the second day, when the doctors still didn’t give them any news, did Sam temporarily give up.

“I’m going to go catch some sleep,” he told Dean, clearly wary of his reaction, barely suppressing a yawn. “Call me if anything changes?”

Dean nodded once, his steely gaze fixed on the dirty-grey wall in front of him. He didn’t care. Sam could do whatever he wanted. But he was staying right here.

Sam threw him a worried glance, then sighed and took his duffel bag away with him.

Dean alternated between staring at the door the doctors had disappeared into and the wall, and promptly lost count of time. When Sam returned, he ignored him. He ignored his bladder, he ignored the oily paper package his brother threw at him, he ignored the bottle of water. He knew this was stupid. He was human, he had needs, he needed sleep, food, water. What if Cas woke up and needed him and he got himself so weak he couldn’t even stand? But the mere thought of eating sent his stomach into a frenzy. And he was terrified of going to sleep and being woken up to bad news.

So he just waited, the circles around his eyes growing darker, his throat drier, his mind cloudier.

About fifty years later, a doctor called for “Mr Winchester’s brothers?”

They hadn’t hesitated a second before giving them that last name.

Sam roused quickly from his nap on the hospital chairs, immediately paling as he did so. Dean spoke, for the first time in three days, and his throat was on fire.

“That’s us,” he growled, and winced out of pain. The doctor took a look at them, shook his head once and began to explain.

Dean didn’t hear much after “He’s going to pull through”. It was Sam who took notes – bless his nerdy heart – about multiple fractures, internal bleeding, concussion, blood loss. It was Sam to reassure the doctor about not having to call the police, and Dean missed entirely the half-assed excuse Sam had to invent to justify why their “brother” had been reduced to a carcass. The doctor seemed convinced, however, and Dean was grateful to his actual brother for his inventiveness.

“We have given him transfusions, and we had to go to surgery to fix some of his internal bleeding, but he’s healing well. His left leg and right arm are in casts, and will have to stay that way for a couple of months. He should wake up in a day or so. If he continues to heal at this pace, we’re thinking about discharging him in a week or so.”

Dean nodded, flooded with so much relief that his knees were weak.

“Are you staying nearby?”

It then occurred to Dean that he had no idea where they were. State, or city.

“We got a motel room nearby,” Sam replied for him. “But when he gets discharged, we live only forty minutes away, so he’ll be able to come for his follow-ups.”

The doctor was clearly pleased by this, and then promptly left them with the name of a nurse – for detailed instructions – and fucked off who knew where. Dean was left with Sam, panting heavily, realising how much strain he had put onto his body.

He looked at Sam.

“Sammy…”

And then he fell like a sack of potatoes.

***  
  


When Dean came back, he was in their motel room.

He immediately threw Sam a dirty glance.

Sam wasted no time.

“One,” his brother growled, throwing a burger and a gallon of orange juice at him. “You are a moron. Two, you are a drama queen. Only you could be such a dick to make me worry about you as well as having to worry for Cas. Three, I called Eileen. The bunker is ready for us when we get back, she’s preparing a room for Cas. It’s the one next to yours, there are almost no stairs. Four…”

Sam took a deep breath then, as if steeling himself. Dean stopped drinking the juice, suddenly alert.

“He’s awake.”

Dean threw the juice aside, and immediately went for the keys.

“No,” Sam said drily, putting himself in the way. He looked as if he didn’t want to spook Dean, and Dean was tempted to ask “So, is this how you choose to die?”

“He has asked for me, but… Dean, he doesn’t want to see you.”

Dean sat back on the bed, his head spinning.

“What…” he rasped.

“He’s sick, and hurt, and it’s understandable, Dean. We don’t want to overwhelm him.”

“But…”

“Look,” Sam whispered, putting a hand on his shoulder. Dean was beginning to shake. “Let me go see him. I’ll bring news. He’s getting discharged in a few days, anyway. Let’s not… let’s just respect his wishes, ok?”

Dean could only nod as his brother took the keys and drove away, to the hospital, to see Cas.

For the lack of anything better to do, he ate. He drank. He went to the bathroom, and took a shower. And then he slept, and slept.

When he woke up, the bed by his left side looked slept on, but there was no trace of his brother. Probably gone to the hospital again.

Dean went downstairs and to the nearest liquor store.

He needed to check out. Stat.

***

Sam brought him news in bits and pieces in the following days.

_He’s awake._

_He’s eating without assistance._

_He’s recovering._

_He’s in pain, but the meds are helping._

Dean nodded and grunted, but deep down he was harbouring a resentment he didn’t have the words for. Cas was human again. How come every time Cas was human, he was barred from helping? Was this some sort of cosmic fuck off? But Chuck couldn’t hurt them anymore, now, could he? So why was it that life had to constantly kick him in the balls like this?

“How about…” he hesitantly asked every now and then.

Sam always looked as if he had to swallow a whole lemon.

“Give him some more time.”

And so Dean nodded, and pretended like this wasn’t killing him, and before he knew it, it was time to bring Cas home.

They had kept him in there for nine days, in the end. Nine days in which Dean had had to stay at the motel, be a good boy, and make preparations.

It was as he saw Cas being wheeled out of the hospital, his back pressed against the Impala, that he made the decision.

They wouldn’t talk yet.

He wasn’t ready.

Cas wasn’t ready.

His refusal to see him had proven it.

So, he would let the elephant in the room grow a couple more sizes. After all, they had been doing this dance for over a decade. _What’s a couple more months?_

As Cas got closer, his brother pushing his wheelchair, Dean realised his impulse decision had been a correct one. Cas was looking at him – and God, Jack, he looked so tired, and hurt, and sick, and there were still bruises as far as the eye could see – like he expected Dean to pull a gun on him any second.

Time. Just… time.

“Hey, Cas,” he greeted him with an easy smile, like this was nothing, like his insides weren’t on fire. He controlled his body forcefully, stopping tears, preventing tremors before they could manifest, he put on a brave face.

Cas stared at him for a few seconds, while Sam fidgeted and waited it out.

Then, the barest traces of a smile appeared on his face, leaving his eyes unaffected, still scared, still ready to run, but with a dash of hopefulness Dean welcomed with every iota of his being.

“Hello, Dean.”

***

  
  


The trip back to the bunker was spent in silence. Sam sat shotgun, Dean drove, and in the backseat, Cas stared outside the window, curled up in himself and wincing every time Dean didn’t manage to avoid a pothole, or whenever the road curved. Dean kept both hands on the wheel, and tried to make the trip as smooth as possible, wishing Cas still had his wings and could just teleport to the bunker, to the safety of the room they had prepared for him.

But Cas was never going to have wings again. Jack had been sure about it.

Cas was going to heal from the wounds inflicted by the Empty, stay human, grow old, and die, and all Dean wanted was the privilege to stay and watch. As the days had stretched, back when he was still in the hospital, he had started to believe that he was going to be denied that privilege. Now, Cas’ little smile had given him a bit of hope.

 _Just give me this one thing_ , Dean thought furiously, his prayer aimed at nobody in particular. Just, life.

When they got to the bunker, surprisingly, Cas let Dean be the one to hoist him up and into the wheelchair, even raising his weak good arm to wrap around his shoulder and stabilise himself. Sam rose his eyebrows, remaining blissfully silent, and as Dean deposited Cas on the wheelchair, he went ahead to make sure that the doors were open and that he was there to help lift the chair every time they encountered stairs. As they locked the main door behind them, Eileen promptly appeared, signing something to Sam.

“His room is ready, let’s go,” Sam translated. Dean couldn’t stop to hug Eileen, hands full, but made a mental note to do so later. They wheeled and carried Cas all the way, until finally, they were in his room. Next to Dean’s.

“I have to go check something out,” Sam announced then, finally allowing himself to kiss his girlfriend. “Are you going to be okay?”

Cas had yet to utter a word since his greeting to Dean.

“Yes,” he replied, his voice even more gravelly than usual.

And they were alone.

Dean paced back and forth, blabbering just for the sake of filling the silence.

“And here you can find toothbrushes, towels, anything you might need. We’re going to change your sheets, of course, and at least for now, we don’t think you should come to the kitchen for meals. We’ll bring you a tray. I could eat with you, if you want…”

“Dean,” Cas interrupted him. Dean turned to look at him, and saw that he was in pain.

“What is it?” he asked, breathless, immediately kneeling down to see him at eye level. Cas looked as if every word out of his mouth was pure torture, but with gritted teeth he spat out:  
“I need to go to the bathroom. And then I need my pills. And then I’ll need to get on the bed.”

Dean blinked a few times.

“Yeah, okay, sure…”

“Could you please call Sam?”

Dean’s heart sank.

“I think Sam is busy right now, buddy.”

Cas pursed his lips and looked away.

“It’s okay. I can wait.”

Now, Dean wasn’t going to pretend anymore.

“I don’t know why you’re acting like this, all mad, and hurt, when _I_ was the one who had too see you _die_ yet again.” He went for angry, but came up short. He realised he sounded like a petulant child, but Cas had finally trained his eyes on him, looking resigned, as if he had expected the scolding all along. “And, to be honest, right now I don’t care to know. But you are here now. You are sick, and you need help, and here I am, with two functioning legs and arms and nothing else of importance to do but _help_ you. So let me.”

Dean finished his piece and found himself short of breath. He realised he had been holding it all along. He exhaled, looking deep into the strangely distrustful blue eyes that belonged to the person who had once trusted him blindly, unerringly.

Eyes that were now wary. As if Dean could ever hurt him again.

As if Dean hadn’t hurt him enough already.

“Okay,” Cas sighed, the fight leaving him. He sagged in his chair and nodded.

The pain in Dean’s chest didn’t ease at all. He wanted Cas to trust him, to want his help, not to resign to it as if fate had slapped him in the face.

He would pry some other time, Dean decided. He had work to do now.

He grabbed Cas’ good arm, the one that wasn’t in the sling, and his good leg, and hoisted him up, careful not to jostle him too much. He walked to the bathroom, steady, and deposited him on the toilet, mindful of signs of pain.

Cas sat down on the toilet wincing, and Dean was suddenly overcome with affection for this man, this human, who obviously found the whole ordeal terribly humiliating.

“Dean, I… my arms don’t work.”

Dean blinked, and it took a second for the message to sink in.

“Oh,” he blurted stupidly, immediately down on his knees, hands flying to Cas’ sweatpants. Cas hung his head low, his cheeks flushed, and ignored Dean as he brought his pants and boxers down, to his ankles, moving him around to accommodate the new position every now and then. Dean didn’t let his eyes stray for a single second, fixing them instead on the floor, and then immediately shot back to his feet.

“Do you need anything else?” he asked.

“No, I think I can manage until I’m done,” Cas whispered, gritting his teeth again. Dean winced.

“Ok.” He scrambled to get out, closing the door behind him. He went to the other side of the room, to give him some privacy, and set to straighten out Cas’ things. He put his bottles of pills on the nightstand, next to a large bottle of water, a few packets of crackers and two energy drinks. Then he made sure Eileen had done the bed properly, because Cas was going to need a lot of pillows to prop his leg up, and found that she had been adamant to make everything perfect. He brought every item he could think of – tissues, TV remote, magazines – to the nightstand and started to fill out the drawers. While he pondered on clothes, and what to get Cas from his own wardrobe – Sam was too big – he heard a noise coming from the bathroom, followed by a thump.

He didn’t even remember making the decision. One second he heard the noise, and then he was there, privacy be damned, pushing the door open and going to help Cas.

“You fell?” he panted, his arms already around him, hoisting him back up on the toilet.

“I tried to…” Cas could barely speak. He must have been in tremendous pain. “I wiped. Then I tried to get back on the chair on my own.”

Irritation prickled at Dean’s skin again.

“You moron,” he growled. “I thought we had an agreement.”

Cas said nothing, his eyes resolutely fixed on the ground, his cheeks flushed by the exertion, and, probably, embarrassment. Dean was getting really tired of this.

“Cas, please, talk to me.”

Dean had put him back in the chair now. So it was the easiest thing in the world to cradle his face in his hands and force him to make eye contact with a gentle touch. Cas’ skin was burning, and it seemed like Dean’s hands on him were physically hurting him, because he shook his head free almost immediately. Dean lowered his hands, feeling so rejected his ears were ringing.

“This is so humiliating.”

“What? Needing my help?” Dean spat out.

“You. Seeing me like this.”

Dean’s shoulders sagged. Was this what Cas was worried about?

Ah, fuck. He wished Sam was here. He wished he wasn’t a fuckup who could never discuss feelings properly. He wished his first instinct wasn’t to run away from the bathroom, get in the Impala and drive away. He hated himself for it. He was a poor excuse for a man.

“Cas, listen to me.” But what could he say? He knew how to solve this, but he was too much of a fucking coward to take the high road now.

He just needed to address what Cas had told him before dying.

He knew it.

Cas knew it.

Neither of them was going to do a damn thing about it, apparently.

“You’re my friend,” Dean managed to get out, and then wanted to kick himself in the balls. Seriously?

“I care for you. a lot.” Okay, getting better. “I don’t want to see you in pain.” True. “It hurts me to see you like this.” Also incredibly true. “I think nothing less of you because of it. To help you, it’s… it’s a privilege, Cas.” Okay, maybe he could still salvage this. “Please, let me. You don’t ever, ever have to be embarrassed in front of me. There is nothing you can do that would ever make me see you differently, Cas, come on.”

He waited to see if he had struck gold. The emotions on Cas’ face were all as clear as day, and while recognising them was easy, interpreting them was another matter entirely.

Surprise. Hope. Fondness. Then…? Understanding? Resignation. Acceptance. Sadness.

Dean was more confused than ever. What had Cas taken from his little speech? Did he think this was Dean, letting him down gently?

So, he did fuck up.

Certain things never changed.

“All right, Dean.”

Dean let out a breath and closed his eyes. He hoisted Cas back in his chair and wheeled him to bed, where the pills were waiting.

“Thank you,” he muttered, lowering Cas down on the pillows and helping him prop his leg up. “It’s… it’s good to have you back, Cas.”

Cas let him do what he wanted, as limp as a ragdoll, and when he answered, his eyes were far away, his voice betraying a deep, melancholy state of sadness.

“It’s good to be back.”

***

Every day there was a new challenge. Getting Cas to help Dean bathe him. Protecting his arm and leg with a plastic bag and tape and refusing Cas’ suggestions that they get a nurse – “Really? And how do we explain the wards and the fact that we live in a pre-War bunker?” – that they call Sam or Eileen instead – “Dude, they’re a little busy reconnecting, I think” – or that Dean just leave him to his own devices to manage – “Yeah, dude, not happening”.

Cas needed to be cajoled, convinced and bribed into every new thing, and always gave up with a distant look, as if he wished to be anywhere but there, as if the only way of coping with this was exiting his body. After a while, Dean stopped caring. He had a job to do and damn, he wasn’t going to let Cas kill himself just because he disliked having Dean to help him.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” he said scathingly one day, as he cleaned Cas’ surgical wounds with alcohol. Cas had protested for at least half an hour about that, insisting he could do it on his own, that Dean didn’t have to see him like that. Dean had obviously ignored him, getting his jumper – an old one of his, blue, and soft, and so warm – over his neck and settling to do his job.

“That’s not what I…” Cas had begun to answer, only to promptly shut down again and turning his eyes away. “Nevermind.”

Just because Dean was used to it, it didn’t mean it hurt any less. Every. Fucking. Time.

Sam and Eileen made an appearance, every now and then, asking if there was anything they could do, but Dean often sent them away with a stern look, telling them to go and enjoy being reunited. He felt like Cas was his responsibility, true, but he also wanted his brother to be happy, for once.

Besides, there were certain things about taking care of a man as injured as Cas that he never wanted his brother to see.

Not that it mattered to him. Doing those things.

He had expected a certain awkwardness at having to see Cas naked, putting his hands on him, bathing him, feeding him sometimes, but it had never come. This wasn’t just some random dude who needed nursing, it wasn’t just any ordinary back that needed scrubbing, it wasn’t just any leg that needed scratching, this was Cas. This was…

 _Don’t go there_ , he often had to remind himself. Later. _We’ll talk later._

Cas was, for the most part, still absent. Depressed, Sam had whispered to him one day. He watched TV with unseeing eyes. He flicked through magazines without really reading. He talked to Dean, made mindless small talk, but all in all, he looked like a man ready to off himself.

And that was what really worried Dean. The one thing his improvised skills as a nurse couldn’t help.

He tried, really. But every attempt at conversation immediately fell short as they both understood that certain topics were off-limits. So they talked about Jack, wondering where he was. They talked about Sam and Eileen, both happy for them. They talked about all the other people that had been brought back, in a world that stubbornly and persistently continued to spin around the sun, in blissful ignorance of what had happened, of what they had to bargain to keep them all alive.

Dean wanted Cas back.

Not this Cas.

 _His_ Cas.

The breaking point came on a Thursday. Hah. Cas’ wounds had more or less healed, his surgical wound no more than an angry scar now, his casts almost ready to come off. In the last days, as the day of the appointment at the hospital neared, Cas had managed to grow even more impatient and hostile, always trying to do things on his own, never calling Dean for help, and straight-out refusing his aid when it came to the easiest stuff. Now he could feed himself, get dressed, even go to the toilet, as his strength came back in waves.

He depended on his pills less and less, and, as a consequence, he depended on Dean less and less.

Dean drove him to the hospital in utter silence, Cas stoically staring ahead. Except from a sigh every now and then from Dean, they remained like that until Dean put Baby in park in the Hospital’s lot.

Cas couldn’t use crutches, because one of his arms still had his cast, so he still had to let Dean put him on the chair. He did so with pursed lips, and when they entered the orthopaedics department he immediately asked if a nurse could help him.

“Dude, we don’t need a nurse,” Dean growled, now beyond a little irritated. “What am I, chopped liver?”

Cas pursed his lips even tighter, and nodded once.

The doctor took his x-rays and determined that Cas was more than ready to have the casts taken off.

“Great,” Cas sighed in relief.

“Don’t thank me yet, the process is a bit disgusting,” the doctor chuckled. “After all, you haven’t been able to wash those limbs for two months.”

Cas immediately paled.

“What do I need to do?” he asked in a rush.

“Nothing, really. We cut off the cast, then usually we let a relative or a friend stay to help the patient clean up, and then we proceed with a physical examination.”

“I don’t need help,” Cas blurted out.

“Cas,” Dean hissed warningly.

“No, Dean. You can go.”

“I ain’t going anywhere, princess. It’s not like a little dirt and a bad smell can chase me away now…”

“Dean! Go! Now! Fuck!”

Both the doctor and Dean jumped at the strange sequence of words. Cas looked like a madman, panting, staring at Dean straight in his eyes – finally – and angry, so angry.

“Cas…” he whispered.

Cas rolled his eyes, his jaw clenching.

“Isn’t is enough yet, Dean? You’ve seen me with my pants down, as weak as a kitten, dirty, broken, out of my mind with pain medication, and now you want to see this as well? Don’t you have the slightest bit of mercy in you?”

“Of course I do, Cas! I just want to…”

“Yeah, yeah, you want to help. I know. And have you ever stopped to think about what this had been doing to me? Having you see me like this? Powerless, and pathetic, and, and… just the opposite of what I was before I saved you.”

The doctor was now very, very confused, frowning at the word “save”, and glancing between them like this was a ping pong game.

But Dean was an ice sculpture. He couldn’t move.

“My opinion of you hasn’t changed one bit,” he says very slowly. “Not one bit. Not because of your injuries, not because of… of… what you said.”

Cas laughed without humour.

“Sure, Dean. Keep telling yourself that. I said what I said thinking I was going to die. I was glad for it. But I never signed up for this. I never wanted to live in the aftermath of what I said.”

The doctor was clearly alarmed now.

“You thought you were going to…”

“You act as if you’re angry at us. At me. For…” Dean cast a wary glance towards the doctor. “For asking Jack to help.”

Cas’ eyes were steely when he replied: “Maybe I am.”

That was it. Dean shook his head, once, twice, then finally threw his arms in the air.

“You know what? If you expect an apology for that, you can go fuck yourself. Big time. I’m not going to apologise for… asking Jack to help. I’m never going to apologise for that. And if you think I… I hate you, now, then that’s just stupid talk. But I’m done. I’m done trying to help you, to care for you, to…” _Damn. Fuck._ “I’m done, Cas. I keep telling you, you’re family. Nothing has to change.”

“Everything is changed, Dean. You _know_ now. And I can see it in you face, just as I could see it while I was telling you. You’re disgusted. _I disgust you_.”

 _My love disgusts you_ , Dean could hear, even though Cas didn’t explicitly state it. He hated himself for even thinking the L word, but right now there was a knife planted in his chest and he had to get out of there.

“Do what you want,” he spat out. “Take my help, don’t take it, fine. Call a nurse. Call a dozen nurses if you want. I’ll still be outside, ready to take your info about physical therapy and drive you back home. And if you still think I’m disgusted by… by you, and nothing can change your mind, fine. I just…”

And, leaving his speech unfinished, Dean bolted out of the room before he could do something embarrassing like bursting into tears.

He ignored the pretty nurse that came in after him, and listened with only half an ear when she returned and gave him instructions on Cas’ physical therapy, reassuring him about his state of health, and saying that the limbs were now fully functional, if a bit sore and atonic.

Dean nodded when he had to, and thanked her, and took the papers, and then went downstairs to pay the bill. When he returned, Cas had already been placed back on his chair, and was waiting for him with his eyes downcast. When he saw Dean, he quickly turned away and fell silent as he was wheeled back to the car.

Sam greeted them with cake, to celebrate the casts being taken off. Dean ate it, and every mouthful felt like eating sand. Cas only pretended to eat, pushing it around in his plate, thinking no one knew what he was doing. Sam threw Dean a worried glance, but Dean shook his head minutely.

After Sam deposited Cas back to his room, and promised him to be the one to drive him to physical therapy in the following days, Dean decided it was a good time to finally let himself be consumed by his unhappiness.

He brought a few bottles to his room, and, trying not to think about how Cas was only one wall over, he promptly drank himself into a stupor.

He only came out of his room to get something to eat and more bourbon, ignoring Sam’s worried looks, Eileen’s disapproval, and avoiding Cas pretty much like the plague.

“His physical therapy is going well”, Sam told him after about ten days. “He can walk without crutches, now. Getting stronger every day.” 

“Good,” Dean grunted.

That night, alone in bed, an arm thrown over his eyes and an empty bottle by his side, Dean finally allowed himself to cry.

He thought about everything. It was like his mind was replaying his worst moments in front of him.

His dad’s disapproval of the couple holding hands in front of a motel. Two guys.

His father’s hunting buddies mocking him, calling him ‘too delicate’ to be a hunter.

His mother’s shock when she saw him and Cas in a hug.

Lisa.

Cassie.

It wasn’t like relationships were a bad idea. They were _a fucking terrible idea_. And Dean had resigned himself to it over the years, hadn’t he? He had made his peace with it. It was just another item on a long list of things he couldn’t have.

_Because the one thing I want, is something I know I can’ have._

He scrunched up his entire face in pain.

But this was Cas.

 _Cas_.

Cas was a man.

Yes.

And he wanted something Dean couldn’t give him.

Couldn’t he, though?

No, he couldn’t.

 _Cas_.

Could he really…?

Before he even made the decision consciously, he was out of bed, and striding towards his door, and towards Cas’ door.

_Okay, Winchester. Time to talk. Time to stop being such a chickenshit._

He rose a fist to knock, but the door was already slightly ajar.

“Cas, we need to… oh.”

Inside the room there was no Cas. Only his brother. Holding a piece of paper, crumpling it between his fingers as if the thing was offending him.

Sam’s voice trembled.

“He’s gone, Dean.” 

***

“He’s gone? What do you mean, he’s gone?”

Sam looked on the verge of breaking down himself, but he steeled himself with a deep breath and passed the note over to Dean.

_I’ve taken a few of the fake credit cards, a duffel bag of clothes, an angel blade and some other items to defend myself. I hope you don’t mind._

_I can’t stay._

_Castiel_

Dean’s vision went blurry. He just… it didn’t make any sense. What…?

“It’s November,” Sam interrupted his breakdown. “Those credit cards are useless if he doesn’t know how to max them out without having them blocked. He has no powers. He’s still weak from…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Dean growled, uncaringly. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. He was going to get Cas back. He ran out of the room, Sam hot on his heels, a plan already forming in his mind.

After all, how far could Cas have gotten? He had to be in Lebanon, somewhere.

“Dean! Stop!”

First thing he would check would be the motels. There and the surrounding towns. It seemed unlikely that Cas would venture further away, and he didn’t mention anything about taking a car from the garage, so he had to be on foot.

Dean’s knees weakened at the idea. He was only halfway through physical therapy, according to Sam. He couldn’t possibly be strong enough to sleep rough or walk miles and miles on that leg of his.

“Dean!” Sam physically grabbed him by the shoulders to turn him around. Dean was surprised – by the gesture and by his instinctive reaction: he almost knifed Sam there and then. “What is the plan?”

He blinked. Wasn’t it obvious?

“What do you think?” he screamed, shrugging him off. “To get him the fuck back!”

“And what if he wants nothing to do with you?”

That stung. Sam said “you”, not “us”. Sam clearly knew that whatever reason Cas had to do this, if was related to Dean.

No, not just related. Dean’s fault.

“I’ll restrain him if I have to,” Dean growled, already imagining the scene. Cas was coming home. Period.

Sam put on his best bitch face.

“And what the hell is that going to solve? Are you going to keep him captive forever?”

Dean gulped. He didn’t have time for this. He had to get him back. Everything else had to be put on the backburner for the time being. Cas could already have been in trouble, for all the knew.

“I’m going to talk to him,” he promised Sam. “He’ll change his mind.”

Sam looked sceptical as fuck as he watched Dean drove away.

***

Dean searched everywhere he could think of.

The streets. The motels. The hotels, even. The homeless shelters. The churches.

After that, he started to go door to door with a picture of Cas – the one in his phone he took by mistake, and had secretly always cherished.

No one had seen him. No one knew anything.

He called Sam to see if there was any news, but no dice. He stopped for a quick lunch and then continued on, by foot, before jumping on Baby again and trying his luck out of town.

Nothing.

After the fourth fiasco, he started to panic.

What if he was dead already? In a ditch, without a cell phone – he had left his on his bed, turned off – starving and dying of thirst and pain and…

Dean stopped himself before his thoughts could get even darker.

His main concern was his leg. He couldn’t have walked a long way, not with his muscle tone so compromised, and if he wasn’t in a hotel, a room or a shelter, where the hell could he have gone?

He was spiralling. This was all his fault. All because he couldn’t talk to him.

Defeated, and feeling like a million years old, he turned tail and returned to the bunker. The moment he opened the door, Sam greeted him like an overexcited puppy, immediately looking behind him to see if he had company. When he saw that Dean was alone, his shoulders sagged, and stomped away with a tension in his jaw.

Eileen was in Missouri, solving a few personal matters before moving into the bunker indefinitely.

Cas was gone, and Dean was completely, utterly alone.

He tried to get some sleep, to eat a few bites, to watch some TV, but food tasted like concrete, TV just irritated him and sleep eluded him.

Sam found him hours later, sitting in front of Cas’ door, wishing to manifest him via sheer pain and regret.

“Nothing?” Dean asked, his voice rough from the alternation between disuse and screaming into his pillow.

“Nothing,” Sam replied. He didn’t sit besides Dean, like he would’ve expected, but stood silently at his side, staring at the door with him.

“He could be anywhere,” Dean stated, finally voicing his fears. “He could be dead.”

Sam nodded.

“He could be.”

Dean sharply turned his head upward. He had expected reassurance, fake promises, optimism, he hadn’t expected… contempt?

“Aren’t you the one supposed to keep up the hope, Sammy?”

But Sammy was having none of it. He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath.

“Dean, you’re my brother, and I love you, but you are a moron, a coward and a dick.”

That was like a bucket full of ice water.

“What?” Dean exhaled. “It’s not like I chased him out…”

“Didn’t you?” Finally, Sam looked him in the eyes. “Jack told me.”

 _Oh_. So, Sam knew. Sam knew how Cas died. How that moment of true happiness had finally been at his reach.

Sam knew just how spectacularly Dean had fucked up.

“Sam, I…”

“No, Dean. You know, had it been anyone else, you might have been given a free pass on this one, but not now. Not when… Dean, if you try to convince me, in any way, form or shape, that you don’t love that man to death, I will punch you in the face.”

Something inside Dean died.

His first instinct was to defy and deny.

_Of course I love him, just not like that._

_I’m not gay._

_I’m not bi._

_I’ve never been attracted to another man before._

_I can’t give him what he wants._

_I see him as a brother._

_I see him as a friend._

But this was Sam. How could Sam buy any of that crap when he had been looking at Dean with knowing eyes for twelve years?

How could Sam believe that Dean wasn’t capable of returning the feeling when Sam had seen him do exactly that, silently, covertly, not very subtly, for so long?

How could Sam understand that Dean had tried, had wanted to talk about it, but he had never believed for a second that Cas could love him like that, and when he confessed, it had already been too late? And then he came home from the hospital, broken in body and mind, and Dean just couldn’t bear to tell him that he loved him, too, but that relationships were out of the question for him?

“I wanted to,” Dean rasped, his eyes clouded. Every word out of Sam’s mouth felt like a punch in the stomach. “I was going to. Then I found him gone.”

“How convenient,” Sam spat out. “And what exactly were you going to tell him?”

“Don’t play dumb, Sammy,” Dean shot back. He rose to his knees – which protested with a soundly crack – and stared at his brother dead in the eye. “How many times have we discussed this? We don’t have the kind of lives that allow relationships. How many times have you said exactly that, and how many times have we tried to, anyway?”

“You are fooling yourself if you believe that’s still true,” Sam laughed sarcastically. “You are so deep in denial, and repression, that you have to come up with excuses not to allow yourself to be happy, and force your misery on everyone else.”

“Now, wait a second…”

“Wake up, Dean!”

It wasn’t the shout that startled him. It was Sam’s frantic expression, as if he wanted to beat Dean, to shake some sense into him.

“Look at me and Eileen! Look at everything that’s happened. Chuck is gone, Dean, don’t you understand? We’re free. _Free_.”

“Oh, yes, it’s the perfect time to put down roots and start saving for a down-payment in a nice neighbourhood, is that what you’re saying?” Dean growled. Sam took a step forward, almost crowding him against the wall, his expression even more menacing.

“We both know that that’s not the only kind of life worth having. There are options now. We can keep hunting, we can go our separate ways, we can leave it all behind, but the point is, whatever we want to do, we can do it. And we don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

“So that is what this is all about,” Dean spat out, realisation dawning on him. “You don’t want a depressed brother bringing you down while you sail into the sunset with your new girlfriend. You’re finally free, except you’re worried that I will still try to drag you down…”

The punch to his face arrived swiftly, as fast and unavoidable as only a hunter knew how to punch.

Dean touched his cheekbone and widened his eyes as his fingers came away with blood, staring at his brother as if he were a stranger. Sam was panting heavily.

“Don’t you dare,” he snarled, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t you dare believe that for a second. I’m happy here. I’m happy to hunt. For the longest time, we’ve only had each other, and that was fine with me, but now?” He ran a shaking hand over his mouth. “Now I don’t have to. And I won’t. Just because you’re in my life, and always will be, doesn’t mean there’s no room for anyone else.”

Dean was shaking, as well.

“And that goes for you too, dumbass.”

Sam then extended a hand, helping Dean to his feet, and they stood there awkwardly, staring at each other, both having lost the will and energy to fight.

“Don’t deny yourself happiness just out of habit, Dean,” Sam whispered, enveloping him in a bear hug. “I know in a moment you’re going to call me a bitch, or a girl, or Samantha, and run away because that’s what you do whenever feelings are involved, but just for this second,” he breathed into Dean’s hair. “Just for this second, believe me. You can be happy. You can have him. And if you don’t go get him, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

Dean’s eyes were full of tears, and he was glad they were hugging, so Sam couldn’t see his face. He cowardly hid his face even further in the folds of his brother’s shirt, but couldn’t quite hold back a sniffle.

“I’m going to get him back,” he promised, and meant every word. “Bitch.”

Sam laughed out loud, and it echoed it the emptiness of the bunker.

***

That point was, Dean knew how to lose people.

It had been ingrained in him ever since he was four. Loss had been as much a part of his upbringing as toys and friends and family dinners were for other children, normal children.

By now, Dean knew exactly how to lose a person. He had grown scarily efficient about it.

Compartmentalize, add it to the pile of ever-present sorrow, move on. Focus on the plan.

But this time, there was no plan. Nothing to focus on. Nowhere to move on to.

And Cas…

Cas had been lost so many times.

Every time Cas died, Dean thought “Is it ever going to hurt any less?” alongside the agonising idea that, maybe, that was the final time. Maybe no one was going to bring him back this time.

And yet, every time Cas returned, and the chasm in Dean’s soul patched itself up just a bit, until the next time.

This kind of pain was new.

Cas wasn’t dead, he wasn’t stuck in heaven or in Purgatory, he was – technically – within Dean’s reach, just… unwilling to do so.

Unwilling to be with Dean.

There was no compartmentalising that. The point remained; Dean knew how to lose. But he didn’t know how to stop fighting.

And it had been relatively easy, all those years, to keep a tight lid on it. Cas had entered into his life as a hurricane, crashing down a wall he didn’t know he had put up and occupying a space inside him he didn’t think could ever be filled.

For the longest time, he only had his dad and Sam.

Then Sam and Bobby.

And whenever he tried to stray from that path, to carve himself a nice slice of normalcy, and happiness, destiny kicked him in the balls so hard that only a fool would ever try that shit again.

It was easy to give up all of that. Just the memory of Lisa’s onyx-black eyes was enough to renounce all hopes and dreams of ever having someone to call a hundred percent his own.

But Cas?

What hadn’t Cas been put through?

He had died multiple times. He had been possessed by Leviathans, by Lucifer. He had been burned, stabbed, beaten, cast away without a second thought.

Cas had bled for them, for him, more times than anyone could count. And yet, he always came back. And now, the part of him that he had kept sealed off for so many years had been nuked.

_I love you. Goodbye, Dean._

There was no corking this. There was no escaping. He could either jump into it, or lose Cas forever.

For the first time, Dean knew how to prevent a loss. He wasn’t going to let that chance escape him.

It was with that thought that he walked deep into a forest, reaching a beautiful clearing in the middle of nowhere.

“Jack,” he called loud and clear, feeling as if he was finally doing the right thing. “Jack, we need you, buddy.” A moment of silence. “Cas needs you.”

“You didn’t think I was going to let him starve? Or injure himself further?”

Dean turned around, startled by the sudden appearance of a voice behind him. His eyes immediately softened. “Hey, kid.”

Because this might be God he was talking to, but he was also Jack, his kid, his almost-son, and he couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him.

“Hello, Dean,” Jack smiled back, and something ached in Dean’s heart. Boy, was he like his father.

“So, he’s fine?”

Jack sighed, taking a step forward.

“Physically? Yes.”

Dean hung his head low, guilt eating away at him. Jack’s smile turned wistful.

“I’m not blaming you, Dean,” he reassured him. “I know that… your life has not exactly left you equipped to handle a situation such as this.”

“I just can’t believe this is my life now: I’ve been talking more about feelings in the last 24 hours than in my entire life,” Dean scoffed, desperately uneasy about this conversation.

Jack laughed. “Well, it was long overdue, don’t you think?”

Dean swallowed empty hair.

“How long have you known?”

Jack inclined his head and frowned, in that way that reminded Dean so much of Cas, and really, how were they not biologically father and son?

“I don’t know, really,” Jack replied pensively. “I guess I just… I’ve always felt like Sam was more of an Uncle, really. Not really a dad. I wondered why, and then I realized that it was because… well, in my mind, you and Cas were my fathers.”

Dean closed his eyes, his throat still convulsing around nothing.

“It just clicked after that. It was so obvious to me, that I couldn’t believe it when I found out you two weren’t actually together.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean rasped. “I’m trying to remedy that.”

“I know,” Jack nodded approvingly. “I’m not sure you can, but I’m glad you’re trying.”

Dean sighed.

“Can you take me to him?”

“No.” Dean opened his mouth, ready to raise his voice, but Jack stopped him.

“I mean, I don’t think that’s wise. I think… you should give him a few more days. And then, I’ll come to you and tell you where to find him. Sounds good?”

Dean considered it. Jack was… all-knowing, now, right? Maybe he had to trust him.

_I love you. Goodbye, Dean._

“Counter-proposal: you take me to him now, and I don’t punch God in the face right in the middle of a forest. Deal?”

Jack’s smile was blinding.

“I was rather hoping you would say that.”

***

Jack left him outside of a run-down motel in Bismarck, North Dakota. A place he had never even considered, given that it was _600 miles away from the bunker_ , and two states over.

For a second, Dean wondered how Cas could have gotten so far from Lebanon, but then he found the answer sitting in the parking lot.

Only Cas could steal a car so ugly.

“Huh,” he snorted. At least he hadn’t travelled by foot.

“He’s in room 2211,” Jack said, rocking back on his heels.

Dean smiled at him.

“Are you too powered up for hugs now?”

Jack seemed to consider it for a second.

“I don’t know,” he mused. “Why don’t we try?”

Dean engulfed him in a bear hug, patting his back with a little too much strength – not like he could hurt him, anyway.

“Nope, still feels good,” Jack chuckled, returning the embrace. When they separated, Dean strangely felt like a parent sending his kid off to college. Technically, he was an adult and more than capable of fending for himself, but on a more sentimental level, Dean still wanted to fold his laundry and scold him if he didn’t eat his greens.

Or, whatever. His burgers.

“You take care, you hear me?” he grunted in the crook of Jack’s neck.

“I will. You too.” They separated and stared at each other for a moment. Dean was oddly reassured by the fact that, despite the immense amounts of power raging inside him, deep down Jack was still just a sweet kid. It would come in handy with his job, his innocence. “And Dean,” Jack added, his face suddenly serious. “Remember. No one – and I mean no one – deserves this more than you do.”

And then he was gone, leaving Dean in front of a motel, with a pissed off former angel waiting for him and desperate hope fighting a war against pessimism in his brain.

Oh, how he wanted to believe it.

Cas was sitting on the bed, wearing only a bathrobe, when Dean broke in the door.

That’s right. Broke in.

He was all in.

“Well, well, look who it is.”

“Dean,” Cas’ exclaimed, standing up – with some difficulty, Dean noticed – and immediately closing the robe tighter on his chest. Dean didn’t allow his eyes to linger.

“I feel like at this point it is redundant to say that we need to talk,” Dean continued, locking the door behind him.

“Dean, I want you to…”

“Nope!” Dean exclaimed, all false cheer, immediately setting to task. He locked the door behind him. Then he opened his bag and took out a can of spray painter. Whistling like he didn’t have a single care in the world, he began to draw wards all over the walls.

“Dean! The motel…”

“They can always repaint!” Dean sing-sang, looking back to throw Cas a playful glance. “I don’t… want… anything… to interrupt us,” he continued, putting up the finishing touches on the anti-Demon seal. “By the way, Jack says hi.”

Cas pursed his lips and sat down on the bed. He crossed in arms on his chest and clenched his jaw, finally putting together how Dean could even be there.

“This is a gross violation of privacy,” he muttered.

“Yeah, well, tough.” Dean opened his bag again, and took out several bags of chips, jerky, and a couple of soda cans. “Here,” he said, tossing a fair portion of it to Cas, who took whatever he could, and let the rest fall on the floor and on the bed.

“What?” Cas muttered, disconcerted.

“We’ll be here a while. Now we got everything we need. Food, drinks, aaaaand…”

Dean pulled out the final item, although it was arguably the most important one: a bottle of whiskey.

“I’m not drinking that.”

“Oh, yes you are, angel. And do you know why?”

“I’m not an angel anymore.”

“You’ll always be an angel to me. Yup, you’re going to drink it, and you’re going to like it, because, guess what? It’s finally time you and I talked.”

Cas swallowed, but seemed to be unamused by Dean’s tactic, and, if Dean had to be honest, he had expected nothing less. This charade was more to put himself at ease than Cas.

Not that there was any easy way out of this, anyway.

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Cas muttered, playing with one of the bags of chips. “I think you’ve pretty much said anything you had to say.”

“Ah, see, sweetheart, that’s where your wrong.”

Cas’ eyes widened at the use of the nickname, but then he promptly schooled his features into impassiveness. He knew Dean only used nicknames in two cases: affection and passive-aggressiveness. He probably assumed that this fell into the latter category.

“Because I haven’t even begun to say my piece. Not by a long shot. And your role, here…” Dean filled out two glasses and pushed one towards Cas, who gingerly took it. “Is just to listen.”

He clinked his glass with Cas’, sat down on the floor, and looked at Cas dead in the eyes.

He sighed.

Boy, had he missed him.

Only a few days, and endless research, endless worrying, and here he was. Sitting on the bed, human, tousled from his shower, holding a glass like he didn’t quite understand what he was supposed to do with it.

That was Cas. Never knowing what he was supposed to do.

Out of place in every single world he had belonged to.

Well, Dean internally decided. Not anymore. In Dean’s world, Castiel was supposed to do jack shit except existing. That was all he needed.

He opened his mouth to begin talking, but then shut it. He chuckled to himself, as Cas’ eyebrows rose and rose, clearly wondering what was wrong with him.

“I don’t think you can ever even begin to understand what kind of force, what kind of presence could force me away from what I had become. To tear me away from the belief that, other than my brother, I wasn’t made for love. For caring.”

Cas began to speak, and Dean shut him up raising both hands.

“Hey, what did I just say?”

“Listen,” Cas grumbled in reply.

“Exactly. So shut that pretty mouth of yours and let me say my piece, okay?”

Cas’ eyes widened, and Dean knew what it meant. This wasn’t a nickname. It was straight-out flirting. At least the comment about his mouth shut him up.

“Sam and I… for the longest time, I only had him. Sammy. My little brother. My one thing to protect, to cherish…” Dean let his eyes grew distant, thinking back on those days when he believed fate had dealt him the loneliest of hands. “We grew co-dependant. It was unhealthy, I knew it, he knew it, we both knew it, and we both decided to ignore it, because when you only have your brother, you kind of make that one brother your number one priority.”

Cas nodded, frowning slightly. Dean knew that it must have sounded strange, from his point of view. Cas knew Dean loved his brother, but he had missed those first few years of unhealthy, insane attachment. 

“Other people managed to fit themselves into our lives. Bobby, Jody, Charlie, Ellen and Jo, a whole lot of them were… they were like family. We loved them. Grieved for them when they left us.”

Dean took a few seconds to remember them all. Some of them were still there. A few others he had, in a slightly different version. And then there were the people he had lost for good.

“But what you did was more than that. You didn’t just… fit. You re-defined what family meant to me.”

Cas’ breath hitched, but he stood still, silent, ever the good little soldier.

“You fucked up. And I forgave you. Time after time, I forgave you. And when I fucked up, you forgave me. You didn’t just fit into my life, Cas, no.” Dean looked up at him and smiled, his eyes shining. “You brought down the entire thing. And then you rebuilt it. With you at the centre. The centre of each and every one of my thoughts, my priorities… You… You got under my skin, Cas. At some point, you became the reason, not Sam, not saving the world, not anything else. You.”

Dean lowered his eyes, growing more and more uncomfortable by the second. He wished he could just skip this part. He wished it could be over. But he also knew that one day, he was going to be glad he did this. Because Cas desperately needed to hear it.

“It was easy to push it down,” Dean continued, ignoring the rapid raising and falling of Cas’ chest. And his own. “You have come into our lives so innocent, so naïve, so… untouched. In every sense of the word. And the moment we met, I had to ask everything of you, I’ve had to push you into doing a lot of shit, and you gave, and gave, and gave, until there was almost nothing left. And it was easier, it was easier asking for all those sacrifices, if I… If I pretended that you were just another hunting buddy.”

Cas nodded slowly, as if that made perfect sense to him. Dean experienced a moment of irritation.

“It was shitty of me,” he quickly pointed out, not wanting any form of absolution for his behaviour. “It was just a cowardly way out. I asked everything of you, and you said ‘Happy to bleed for the Winchesters’. That’s fucked up, Cas.”

“Not _everything_ ,” Cas mumbled. Dean’s eyes went soft again.

“No, not everything,” he agreed. “But how could I ask any more of you, Cas? How was I supposed to look you in the eyes, after everything you’d gone through for us – _for me_ – and say ‘I want more, it’s not enough’?”

Cas’ eyes widened again.

“So… when you told me you loved me, and then died, leaving me with the aftermath… I thought to myself, that’s it. You’ve officially ruined him. Destroyed him. To the point that he died _with a smile on his face_ because his last act had been to save you. What the fuck, Cas. How was I supposed to live with that?”

“I had no other choice,” Cas justified himself. “If it’s ever going to come between me or you, I’ll never have a choice. I’ll die a thousand times, happily, if it means you’re safe.”

“See, now, that’s my problem,” Dean growled, and downed half his glass of whiskey in one go. “I don’t want that. If we’re to be… something more, than I can’t have that.”

“Dean, let’s cut to the chase,” Cas shot back, and his glass was empty. Dean filled it absent-mindedly. “Stop pretending that this is anything but a plot to get me back to the bunker, so that you don’t have to wallow in your ridiculous guilt. You keep saying ‘more’ as if it was something you’re capable of. I told you that night: I know what I can’t have.”

Dean took a deep breath and lowered his eyes. This was the most difficult part. If he could get through to this, with minimal damage, then everything would go well.

“You… can.”

“No, Dean, I can’t. I’ve seen the way you looked at me the past two months. I never wanted to make you uncomfortable in any way, and uncomfortable is all you’ve been. I’ll _die again_ before I have to see you looking at me like that.”

Dean steeled himself, and forced some courage out of his stupid fucking brain, because this moment was either their resolution or their undoing. And he was tired of fighting.

“Cas. Look at me. Listen to me. _You can_.”

Cas’ breath was coming up faster and faster. He stared at Dean, looking for signs of deception, disbelief written all over his face. Scepticism. Suspicion.

And then.

_Oh._

Cas’ eyes cleared up. For a moment, nothing happened, as he looked into the green pools of repression, and denial, and saw them – for the first time since they’d known each other – open, honest. Uncovered.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“But you never…”

“I thought I couldn’t, either. For a million reasons.”

“But the last two months…”

“I wanted to wait until you were better.”

“But you looked so…”

“I wasn’t. I was just in pain. And waiting for you to get better. I never want to see you like that again, Cas.”

“Yeah, well, put yourself in my shoes for a moment. First, you confess your feelings to the love of your life. Then, you die. Then you come back, but with no powers, and you have to let him help you, let him see you at your absolute worst, wiping you, bathing you…”

“There is nothing you could ever do that would make me feel awkward, Cas,” Dean promised, his voice breaking on his name. He sounded unrecognisable to his own ears. Was this what it was like to finally be one hundred percent, truly, absolutely honest? “There is nothing, and I mean nothing, about you, that could ever disgust me.”

Cas’ face lit up like Christmas, his cheeks flushed, his eyes bright, and his smile so, so wide.

“I mean, that’s a lovely way of putting it, if a bit convoluted. And that’s me saying…”

“I fucking love you, too, you asshole.”

A moment of silence stretched into two, then three, then four, and then it was just awkward. For real, this time.

“Cas?”

“Yes?” Cas stammered.

“Did I break you?”

Cas sighed.

“Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last.”

Dean’s chest collapsed in itself again.

“Oh…”

“I mean it in the best possible way, Dean.”

“Oh.”

Silence again.

“Well, you… you break me, too, Cas.”

And then they burst into laughter.

As they laughed, and laughed, and stopped laughing only to look at the other and start all over, it was the most natural thing in the world to do to climb up on Cas’ bed and sit by his side, taking his hands in his and sliding into his place in the world. Their eyes danced as they stared at each other, and their first kiss was stupidly off-balanced, hindered by curved lips, by smiles, and it was like kissing Cas’ laughter rather than his lips. It took them a few tries, waiting for their elation to finally die down, to get it well and truly right.

And so Dean came home in Cas’ arms. That was how his story ended. Not in tragedy, as he had always suspected, not in pain, not in solitude. It ended as he stopped pretending, and finally allowed himself to have exactly what he wanted to have.

After what felt like hours of just kissing, and talking, and laughing, and more kissing, he took of Cas’ clothes perfunctorily, like it was a task as banal as filling the tank, or changing Baby’s oil. He was surprised by his own matter-of-fact attitude about it, because the clothes, he realised, were just objects. Just canvas covering what was always his goal. He removed them as if they were insignificant, because they were.

Every new inch of skin revealed was like a prize, like something in serious need of worshipping, because he could have this now.

It was his heaven. Discovering Castiel inch by inch, mole by mole, angle by angle, curve by curve.

Cas alternated between holding his breath and panting slightly, his eyes never leaving Dean’s.

How could this feel the way it felt?

Dean thought he knew sex. He knew the animalistic urge of it, the push, the fight for dominance, the ache to please. He thought he knew what it felt like to take off someone’s clothes. He had taken off so many before. Even men’s.

This was not something Dean had ever had the luxury to know.

This was him, and Cas, and the happiness he had denied himself for twelve years.

This was…

Love was radiating off Castiel in waves, hitting him in the gut and making him weak all over. He could feel Cas’ eyes trained on him, he could feel the momentousness of the situation, and, as he took off the last item of clothing, he could feel it changing him.

There was no going back after this.

He wanted no going back.

He was okay with all of it.

“I love you,” he whispered again, taking his mouth again, his hands coming up to caress the sides of the man he loved. The human – angel – he loved. The angel that had fallen for him.

“Dean…” Cas whispered on his lips. Dean smiled.

“Wanna undress me, Cas?”

He felt a smirk against his mouth.

“I’d love to, Dean.”

Their first night together was awkward, and a blur, and filled with so many embarrassing moments, and instances in which Dean’s mind awoke momentarily and kicked him in the stomach, angrily asking “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Winchester?”

_I’m being happy._

_I’m being me._


End file.
